


Digital Displays

by compos_dementis



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, he's the little queer kid, too afraid to speak his feelings, pretending to love someone he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digital Displays

1:13 AM.

There's a blue light from Miles's digital bedside clock that casts a cool glow across the room. If he closes his eyes, he can hear it buzz gently in the darkness, but he prefers to keep his eyes open, watching the clock's numbers change. He shouldn't even be awake.

There's a body next to him, warm and alive and breathing deeply in a restful sleep. (That's a luxury Miles can't afford anymore. Sleep brings nightmares with it.) He doesn't remember the stranger's name -- Robert or Roger or something. He does remember that his cock felt heavy in his mouth and that the man fucked like it was going out of style. The emotional warmth that should accompany such an action is absent. That's fine. Miles hadn't been looking for comfort last night.

Robert, or Roger, makes a soft noise in his sleep. It reminds Miles that he isn't alone, and yet, he feels more lonely than he's ever felt in his life. Once again, he's the little queer kid, too afraid to speak his feelings, pretending to love someone he doesn't-- even if only for a single night.

Miles reaches for his cell phone, sitting beside the clock, and he unplugs it from the charger. It lights up in response, giving him the time again. 1:17.

He scrolls through his news app, which provides the usual batch of bullshit articles about pop culture figures, and then he checks the weather (still fucking hot outside), and when he can't think of anything else remotely productive to do, he plays solitaire until his eyes burn.

Checks the time. 1:42.

Miles sets his phone aside, swallowing a tiny and disappointed sigh. He turns onto his right shoulder, but doesn't dare drape an arm across the man next to him-- they aren't a couple, after all, just two guys who met at a bar and got a little stupid. Insisting that Robert use a condom had been a bit of a struggle, and it makes him that much more grateful that Waylon is so good about it.

Waylon. The thought of him brings a pang of guilt to his very core, and he suddenly feels all that much more lonely. The man beside him is Latino, he thinks, with broad shoulders and thick thighs and strong hands. The stranger had held him down, and it'd been nice, but not what he wanted. His hair is too short, his voice too gravelly, his tone too demanding. Waylon never demands anything from him. He'll ask, sometimes, but he never gives orders, not unless it's telling Miles to put out his cigarette or to have something for lunch besides whiskey.

Miles doesn't want to think about Waylon right now, but the thought has wormed its way into his head and now it won't leave. If it were Waylon next to him, he'd wrap his arms around him from behind, nuzzle into the nape of his neck, place kisses along his spine. But it's not. It's some stranger that Miles has zero emotional attachment to, because he tells himself that that's what he likes. No strings attached.

And yet--

He finds himself wanting. Aching, in a way, down in the very core of his being, for that soft mouth and those sad eyes. He wants to fit himself between Waylon's legs, certainly, but also wants Waylon's fingers in his hair, and to touch his face, and to kiss every inch of him he can reach. He wants that emotional warmth, for once. A sense of belonging.

Miles hasn't felt that in a long time. He's not sure he'll know it when it happens.

He sighs again, a quiet noise into his pillowcase before he turns back over, grabbing his phone again. He has to tell him. Waylon has to know, and even though Miles is still a little drunk, he's aware enough to know when a feeling is going to eat him from the inside out. He'll live with this shit forever if he doesn't say anything. Waylon deserves to know so they can end it.

1:54 AM.

Miles finds Waylon's name amongst his very few text messages, starts typing with his thumbs. _I love you._ But it sits there, unsent, and Miles eventually erases it again.

What right does he have to barge into Waylon's life and destroy what little happiness he has? What they have right now, it's good, isn't it? Waylon comes over, they go for a drink or a bite to eat, or sometimes they order in, and conversation turns to frenzied kissing, and things escalate. Once, they'd been arguing over something stupid, a play argument like a real couple would have, and it ended with Waylon on the floor and Miles fucking him right there, unable to keep his hands to himself any longer.

It's good. He shouldn't want anything more than what they have.

It's just the knowledge of where Waylon goes every night, when they're finished, when they've showered so Waylon doesn't smell like sex and cigarettes-- it's knowing whose arms Waylon runs into that kills him. Miles likes Lisa. They get along. Miles doesn't want to break them up.

But he wants Waylon for himself, too.

He picks up his phone, tries again. _I love--_ No. He erases it. The time creeps forward. 1:56.

Jesus Christ, this is pathetic. Drunk in the early hours of the morning, laying wide-awake next to some guy he'll never see again after tomorrow, heart aching for someone else. When did his life become a Lifetime movie?

He can't even imagine what Waylon would say, if he knew the truth. There's no way in hell he'd say it back, or at least Miles doubts he ever would. He runs the scenario through in his head, Miles blurting out a heartfelt confession in person, right into that sad little face, and Waylon's long stretch of silence to follow it. He imagines Waylon giving him a pitying look. He imagines Waylon's voice, hesitant-- _"Maybe you're just confused."_

Maybe Miles _is_ confused. Or maybe he's head over heels in love with someone he can never wholly have, and it's killing him. The kisses and intimacy are fantastic, but Miles wants more. It's his Shakespearean flaw, maybe, his endless desire to have more than the universe is willing to provide him.

It's got to end at some point, this emotional carousel. They go round and round in circles, never going anywhere, a cycle of lies and excuses. To Lisa, to each other, to Waylon's kids. It's not fair to anyone. It's got to end.

Miles picks up his phone once more. The screen lights up in greeting, and he reads over the last message he'd sent to Waylon, two days ago. _You left your shirt here._ His heart twists painfully and he tries to attribute that to the alcohol.

2:00 AM.

_I love you.  
I just fucking love you._

The message sends. Miles watches nervously as though he'll get a response at this hour, but after a few moments, he turns his phone off, sets it back by the digital clock. Before he can help himself, he turns onto his side, wraps his arms around the stranger, and presses his face into his hair. He pretends the shampoo he can smell is Waylon's. He pretends he's not suffering. He pretends a lot of things, these days.

It seems to be the only way he can get any sleep anymore.


End file.
